


On the road again

by Builder



Series: Whoa Bessie [19]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amputee Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Headaches & Migraines, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Needles, Protective Steve Rogers, Sickfic, Trans Steve Rogers, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-17 08:22:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20617943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: It starts when James falls to his knees beside the breakfast table clutching his head.  He’d gone to bed with a headache, but this is definitely an upgrade, and an impressive one at that.





	On the road again

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr @builder051

It starts when James falls to his knees beside the breakfast table clutching his head. He’d gone to bed with a headache, but this is definitely an upgrade, and an impressive one at that. Steve whips around from where he’s burning the fried eggs and automatically reaches for the rescue seizure meds. 

“Hang in there, Buck,” he intones.

“Mm,” James groans in response. “No, I’m--”

“Hold on, I’ve got your meds,” Steve says.

“No, I’m ok,” James repeats. “Just--”

“Bullshit.”

“Pain,” he grunts. “So much pain.”

“Where?” Steve asks. “Still your head?” He abandons the spatula and drops to a squat at James’s side.

“Yeah,” James croaks. “So bad.”

“This isn’t a seizure, is it?” Steve asks.

“No.” James makes to shake his head, but his eyes flood with tears. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“What?” Steve uses his thumb to wipe the moisture away. “Don’t worry about it. Well, I’ll worry about it.”

“No, don’t,” James tells him with a hitch in his voice. “It just… really hurts.”

“Like, Excedrin hurts?” Steve asks. “Or Imitrex?”

“Um,” James gulps. “Neither.”

“What do you mean?” Steve’s eyes go wide. “Like, worse?”

James nods and bites his lip. 

“Jesus.” Steve grits his teeth. “What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“You want to lie down, maybe?” 

Steve meant on the couch, but James gets clunkily down on his side on the kitchen floor. 

“That can’t be comfortable,” Steve comments.

“‘S not, really,” James replies. He pulls his legs in toward his chest and cradles his arm around his head. 

“What do you want me to do?” Steve asks again.

“I-- Just--” James stutters.

“Um. Here.” Steve stands and runs a dish cloth under the faucet. He pauses to turn off the slightly smoking burner before returning to James’s side and laying the towel across his forehead. “Better?” he asks, a bit stupidly. He knows it can’t possibly make a dent in a headache this bad, but it doesn’t stop him from trying.

“Ugh.” James grinds his teeth and lets out a strangled moan. “It’s just… the worst headache…” He gulps and nearly gags, but his stomach is empty and nothing comes up.

“Ok, um--” Steve gently pulls James into a sitting position, hanging his head between his knees. “It’s gonna be alright.”

“Mmph.” James gives a nauseous grunt. 

“Is it like a stabbing pain? Or constricting?” Steve asks, well aware that he has no power to diagnose. 

“I-- I don’t--” James does gag this time. A thin stream of bile dribbles down his chin and onto the floor. 

“Ok.” Steve uses the towel to wipe him up. Then he throws caution to the wind. “Do you think you’re having an aneurysm?”

“Fuck,” James spits. “I don’t know.” He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and gingerly maneuvers himself out of his own mess. “How am I supposed to know?”

“Good point,” Steve says with a sigh. “If you’re hurting that bad, though, we should go to the hospital.”

“Fucking go to bed,” James sputters. 

“I just,” Steve nervously chews one thumbnail. “I just can’t let you do that.”

James starts to roll his eyes, then clutches his head in agony. 

“See, I don’t want you to lie down and not wake up,” Steve says quickly.

“Yeah, I--” James gulps convulsively, sweat forming on his brow. “Ok. Fine.”

Steve leaves him on the kitchen floor for two minutes while he throws on jeans and digs up phones and wallets for both of them. 

“Alright,” Steve says, “Come on.” It takes most of his strength and all of his grace to get James off the floor without winding up on his own ass. There’s a stain of stomach acid on James’s thigh they both pretend not to see as Steve supports him out to the car. 

James leans his head back against the headrest immediately and closes his eyes.

“Not far,” Steve tells him. “Not far at all.” The closest ER is just around the other side of the VA hospital where they both spend most of their days. Steve has little idea who’s on during the dreaded weekend shifts; in fact, he barely knows the hospital aside from his own department and the staff in the cafeteria. He trusts the hospital, though. It’s highly rated for the area. At least he thinks it is. Though Steve may just be making that up to make himself feel better. 

The drive only takes a few minutes. Steve parks in the staff lot, which is closer, hoping to all deities that nobody cares that it’s the wrong day for him to be using his permit. He runs around the front of the car and opens James’s door, then throws the man’s arm over his shoulder and helps him toward the entrance to the Emergency Room. 

They dodge an ambulance pulling up to the bay and slide through the double doors.

“You need to be seen?” asks the gum chewing receptionist as soon as she lays eyes on them. 

“Yeah,” Steve says, gently clapping James on his stump. 

The girl directs him to a seat and asks his name and address, which Steve happily provides while James goes back to clutching his head. 

“And symptoms?” The girl inquires.

Steve looks at James. “Severe headache.”

“How would you rate your pain on a scale of one to ten?”

“Um.” James swallows and lifts his chin. “Nine?”

Steve assumes it’s only his past experience with hospitals and surgeries that keeps James from saying ten. 

The receptionists nods, unimpressed, and sends them into the waiting room.

They make it through vitals and registration without incident, though James’s blood pressure is high and his heart rate is through the roof. He starts to gag again when the tech puts the thermometer under his tongue, but a well-timed swallow keeps everything in place.

“How’re you holding up?” Steve asks when they’re relegated back to the waiting room.

“Hmph,” is James’s curt reply. 

The folks in charge of triage seem to know their stuff, and it’s only a few minutes before James is called back again. He eschews the proffered gown and lies gratefully on the paper-covered cot. 

“Aw, Buck,” Steve murmurs as James closes his eyes. 

“Ow,” James groans.

“Should I be quiet?”

“No. Just, ow.”

Steve reaches for the light switch beside the door and flips it to the off position. “Is that better?” he asks before sitting on a spindly chair in the corner of the room.

James makes a dull sound of assent. 

They get an entire minute of peace before an EMT comes bursting in, toting a huge gear bag and flipping the light back on. 

“What’ve we got here?” the man says loudly, tucking his long golden hair behind his ear.

Steve cringes, and he hears James’s teeth clench from across the room.

“Um,” Steve says slowly, blinking as if in morse code. “Really bad headache. Really bad.”

“Headache, eh?” the EMT repeats. “First line of defense is always hydration.” He pulls the duffle off his shoulder and removes a clear bag of fluids, then begins opening packages of tubing and needles.

Steve recognizes all the makings for an IV, and it seems James does too. He groans and deflates, dropping his chin to his chest and pulling his arm in close.

“Geez,” Steve breathes, standing up to hold James’s hand. He realizes a moment too late that he’s being the opposite of helpful, James having only half the average number of easily accessible veins. “Look at me,” he says instead, going in to cup James’s chin. “Look at me, Buck.”

James obliges the best he can. He trains his eyes on Steve, and they slide out of focus before coming to rest somewhere in the region of Steve’s eyebrows. “Ok,” James whispers.

He blinks dazedly when the EMT rolls up the sleeve of his shirt. Steve’s glad James is wearing one of the tailored ones that only has the one sleeve, lest he give the whole of the staff the shock of their lives.

“Be gentle,” Steve says, probably unnecessarily. “He’s in pain.”

“Of course, man,” the EMT replies, though not quietly. He pushes James’s sleeve above the elbow and begins to feel for veins. “This will be tight,” he warns before pulling the tourniquet around his bicep.

James gives a strangled hum in response. Steve watches as his coarse arm hairs catch under the thick rubber band. 

“Gentle,” Steve mutters again, but the EMT is already prodding at the veins in the crook of James’s elbow. 

James practically growls at him, grinding his teeth and clenching his fist.

“That’s it, my man,” he has the audacity to say. Then, “Shit, no.” The EMT digs one-handedly in his bag and pulls out a thick pad of gauze and a length of coban.

Steve isn’t sure he wants to see the results of the shoddy handiwork, but he gets a glimpse of the already spreading bruise before James’s arm is bandaged up.

“What the hell?” It’s all Steve can do to keep from telling him off further.

“Don’t worry,” says the EMT. “There are plenty more veins. Like… Here” He rotates Jame’s arm and points to one midway between elbow and wrist. “Or...Here.” He points to the back of his hand. 

“Right.” Steve fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Can we just,” he starts, going for his kindest tone. “A nurse, maybe? Or a doctor?” Even if this EMT wasn’t doing such a lackluster job, he’d still want James in the hands of the most highly trained medical trained professionals around.

“I got him,” the EMT says, tapping another vein. “This is a good one.”

“OK,” Steve sighs. He looks back to James and touches his stump shoulder, which he realizes is shaking. “It’s ok, Buck. It’ll be ok.”

“Mm.” James barely nods.

“Little poke…” the EMT murmurs.

It probably is just a little poke, but James’s entire body convulses in a flinch he does his best to control. 

“It’s ok,” Steve repeats again. “Look at me, Buck, just look at me. You’ll be ok.”

“Yup,” James replies with a groan, his eyes and lips wet.

“You alright? You feel sick?” Steve knows the questions are stupid, but he wants to know the answers nonetheless.

“I’m fine,” James breathes in a choked whisper. “Don’t--” He stops to swallow. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Aw, c’mere.” Steve opens his arms, and James immediately leans in, placing his head against Steve’s chest. Steve feels his shallow breathing and resists the urge to give him a comforting cuff on the shoulder.

“Ok, that’s that,” the EMT says authoritatively, tearing off a piece of tape and smoothing it over the plastic catheter in the back of James’s hand. He loops the clear tubing and adds another strip for good measure. “Nurse and NP should be in momentarily. If you need anything in the meantime, I’ve been Aaron.”

“Lights back off, maybe?” Steve suggests. He looks to James. “It helps, right?”

“Hm,” James says into the front of Steve’s shirt.

“Sure thing.” Aaron catches the light switch and steps out. 

There are a few minutes of blissful silence, during which Steve mulls over the EMT’s words. He definitely referred to a nurse practitioner, not a doctor. That removes any hope that he had of seeing doctor Hill, the wonderfully gentle MD who’d treated James the last couple of times he’d wound up in the ER.

“Hang in there, Bucky,” he says, two seconds before the door bounces off the wall with a crack loud enough to raise the dead. 

James burrows further into Steve’s chest, and Steve wraps his arms around him. The light flips on again as a tall shadow enters the small exam room. 

“Fuck,” James mutters around a queasy gulp.

“I’m Brock,” says the shadow. “Your NP this morning. What brings you in?” He sounds more like a hotel clerk with a bad attitude than a medical professional.

“Rumlow, wait!” A nurse comes skidding into the room, his sneakers squeaking on the polished tile floor. “This one’s a status migraine.” The young man pushes his blonde hair out of his eyes and gives Steve an apologetic look. “Hi. I’m Pietro.” He looks back to the NP and mouths, “Be gentle.” 

“Ok, ok.” Brock lifts his hands innocently. “So, your head hurts?”

James nods into Steve, so Steve gives the verbal “yes” for him.

“Alright.” Brock sits loudly on a rolling stool as Pietro stations himself behind the computer. “I’m going to ask you some questions,” he says in a bored voice. “What’s your name?”

“James… Buchanan… Barnes.” The pain is evident in James’s voice.

“Date of birth?” Brock presses.

“March tenth--” James swallows hard and falters on the year.

“Eh, close enough,” Steve decides.

Pietro seems to agree, giving a quick nod and an affirmative keyboard clack.

“Ok.” Brock regains control of the conversation. “Where are you this morning, James?”

“Um.” James adjusts his position and furrows his brow. “Here?”

Steve sighs. ‘Oh no,’ he thinks. The staff seem convinced this is just a bad migraine, but should James really be so confused. Should he really be hurting so much?

“Here,” Brock repeats. 

Pietro types a note.

“Ok,” Brock says. “And why are you here?”

“Uh.” James takes a breath. “2019?”

Steve shakes his head. There’s only one excuse for this one. “He doesn’t have his hearing aids--” he starts.

Brock holds up his hand. “You’re sure this is a headache?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “You’re sure he’s not having a mental breakdown?”

“What?” Steve nearly loses his grip on James. Even Pietro seems to stop typing in surprise.

“This, you know,” Brock gestures with his pen. “Episode.” He puts a spin on the word that makes his opinion clear.

“No,” Steve says immediately. “And trust me, I would know.”

“But he’s sick, he’s panicky, you bring him to the ER--”

“Yeah, because I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Steve interrupts. “Because I want to make sure he’s not having a fucking anyeurism! But I’m a psychologist, and trust me, I know a mental breakdown when I see one.”

“Alright,” Brock huffs as he stands up. “Fine.” He takes a step toward the door. “Order MRI for this one, then have Dr. Pierce read the results. I’m recommending admission; I just haven’t yet decided which ward.” He leaves the room, and the door clicks shut behind him.

It takes all of Steve’s strength not to give the NP a good cursing out. Instead he refocuses on James, burying his nose in the waves of his hair. 

“I’m so sorry about him,” says Pietro, moving out from behind the computer. “He’s not normally quite that rough around the edges…” He trails off with a shrug. 

“Couldn’t imagine working with him on the daily,” Steve says honestly.

“Well, you get used to it.” Pietro shrugs. “As soon as he finishes with his MRI, we’ll set him up with some painkillers. A good migraine cocktail, some magnesium, maybe, or some steroids--” 

He’s cut off when a transport technician arrives with a wheelchair. The man’s nametag reads “Hogan.” “Barnes for MRI?” he asks.

“Yup,” Pietro says. He looks to Steve. “Want me to help you transfer him?”

“That would be great, actually,” Steve replies. He grips James’s hand, careful not to disturb the IV line, and shifts him toward the edge of the cot. Pietro loops an arm around James’s waist and supports half his weight as Steve steers him upright. 

They make an ungainly three-point turn and settle James in the wheelchair. He immediately lists sideways toward Steve.

“Ok, Buck,” Steve murmurs. He cards his free hand through James’s hair and presses a quick kiss to his temple. 

“He’s real lucky to have you,” Pietro comments, hanging James’s IV bag on a pole above his head. “If you don’t mind me saying.”

“Oh, of course not,” Steve says quickly, feeling himself go pink.

He begins to walk into the hall beside James’s wheelchair, but he’s stopped when the transport tech’s arm hits him in the chest. 

“You can’t come back that far,” Pietro explains apologetically. “Sorry.”

“Oh.” Steve tries to keep his voice measured. “Ok, sure.” He steps back toward the exam room and leans against the doorway. 

“I’m really sorry,” Pietro repeats. “It’s just, policy and all--”

“It’s fine.” Steve crosses his arms, hoping he doesn’t come across as confrontational. “I’m just really worried about him. It all, like, came on so fast, and…” Moisture prickles unexpectedly at the corners of his eyes. 

“Hey, I get it, man.” Pietro claps him on the shoulder. “Working ER, we kinda see it all the time. Not to trivialize it or anything, but, like, really bad, scary things happen every day, and most of them turn out to be ok.”

Steve gives a long, hard exhale. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, bud. You work here, right?” Pietro points to the access badge sticking halfway out of Steve’s pocket. 

“Yeah. Counseling,” Steve replies, quickly wiping his eyes with his thumb.

“Well, if I ever pull a normal shift, I’ll give you a secret handshake in the cafeteria.” Pietro grins.

“Sure thing.”

“MRI takes, like, ten minures. Maybe fifteen, tops. Just wait here. Holler if you need anything, and Happy’ll bring your boy back once he’s out of the giant magnet.”

“Happy?” Steve asks.

“Hogan, I mean,” PIetro corrects himself. “We have all kinds of call signs around here.”

“Oh. Well, thank you,” Steve says. “You’ve been great. Especially after what’s-his-name.”

“Rumlow?” Pietro laughs. “It’s spelled just like it sounds. And my last name’s Maximoff, by the way.”

“Ok…”

“Patient survey’s on the website.” Pietro winks.

Steve laughs. “Will do.” He gives him a wave as the nurse takes his leave. 

Steve reenters the small exam room and takes a seat on the rolling stool, then changes his mind and goes back to the chair in the corner instead. He crosses his legs, then uncrosses them and drums his fingers on his knee. It finally occurs to him to pull his phone from his pocket to pass the time, but Steve immediately feels guilty and puts it back. He checks his watch and sees that 12 minutes have passed. A thrill of panic rolls down his spine when he realizes James could be back literally any second, and a diagnosis could come any second after that. 

A clatter sounds in the hallway, and Steve leaps from his seat. He reaches for James, who is leaning forward slightly in the wheelchair, his eyes downcast. Steve notices that his pajama top has been changed for a hospital gown, and his medical alert necklace is tangled in the IV line around his wrist.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve whispers, trying not to overwhelm him. “How’re you feeling?”

“Mm.” James slowly lifts his head as the technician, Happy, pushes the wheelchair back into the exam room. “Not so good.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says. He gently untangles the necklace from James’s wrist and re-fastens it around his neck. “D’you want to lie down, or--?”

“Better stay put, if you ask me,” Happy says. “Doc will be in with results in just a minute and then he’ll be moved to a room upstairs.”

“So they are admitting him?” Steve asks. “Is that based on the scan, or just what that NP recommended?”

“Hey, I just drive the chair,” Happy replies, raising his hands palms up. “But he’s pretty sick, and a little bird told me room 211 is going to have a new occupant pretty soon.”

“Second floor?” Steve confirms. “Not psych ward, then. And not ICU, either.”

“No, it’s not,” says a new voice. A doctor with a white coat and ashy greying hair steps into the room as Happy vanishes down the hall. “I’m Dr. Alexander Pierce.” He waves a handful of printouts. “Here with actual results and orders, not prognostications and psychological philanderings.” He wiggles his fingers to emulate silliness.

Steve feels too caught to be offended. “My apologies, sir,” he says. Then he nods toward the printed papers. “What are the, uh, findings?”

“Nothing!” Dr. Pierce announces. He slaps one paper down on the cot and lines up another next to it.

James flinches at the sound. Steve squeezes his shoulder.

“Pain isn’t due to anything structural. Migraine activity behaves much like seizure activity, and I understand he does have a history of those.”

“Yes.” Steve nods.

“So I’d like to admit him and try a course of IV meds while keeping him under observation. The past traumatic brain injury makes things a little more complicated, and I want to be a bit more cautious, but it’s a headache disorder we’re treating, not a tumor or an aneurysm.” Dr. Pierce offers a wan smile. 

Steve lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Ok,” he says, looking at James. “Ok?”

“Yes,” James whispers, barely moving his lips. “I just-- anything--”

“Anything to feel better?” Steve fills in the gaps.

James nods minimally, then gulps. “Sorry,” he hisses. 

“Don’t worry.” Steve rubs the back of James's neck.

Dr. Pierce is less impressed. He yanks an emesis bag from a fixture on the wall and holds it out. James shakily takes it, but lets the green plastic crinkle in his lap.

“Transport will take you up to the second floor,” Dr. Pierce says. “I’ve already put orders in for some medications.”

“Wow,” Steve comments. “That’s fast.”

“Saturday morning is a good time to visit us at the hospital, if there is such a thing,” Dr. Pierce smiles. He nods to Happy and says “Take ‘em on up.”

Room 211 is arranged the same as the exam room downstairs, though with a bed in the center instead of a cot. There’s a computer in one corner, a chair in another, and a small rolling table pressed up against the wall.

James is decidedly green around the gills again by the time he’s offloaded into the bed. “Steve?” he asks in a choked whisper, barely containing a gag. 

“Here.” Steve opens the emesis bag and holds it open for James. A long string of saliva drips into it, but nothing else seems to want to come.

“It’s alright, Buck.” Steve gives him a gentle pat on the back.

“Feeling pretty crummy, there?” asks a kind female voice. A woman in pink scrubs enters the room, closely followed by a nervous-looking young man holding a clipboard. “I’m May,” she says. “I’m your nurse today. And this is Peter, my student.”

“Hi.” Steve waves with his free hand. “I’m Steve. He’s James.” 

They attach a pulse oximeter to James’s finger and heart monitor leads to his chest, then Peter begins to scribble down a note as May clacks away on the computer. “Looks like we have orders for intravenous cocktail of painkillers, anti inflammatories, and a mild sedative to start with. That plus oxygen therapy can sometimes break a migraine.”

The words themselves hardly make an impact on Steve. May begins to list off drug names to Peter, and the kid leaves the room to fetch them.

“How’re you holding up?” May asks.

“Huh?” Steve snaps out of his daze. “He’s--”

“No, I mean how are you feeling?”

“Oh.” Steve scratches the back of his head. “I’m ok. Worried. Relieved, but still worried. I haven’t seen him this bad off since he had the first seizure…” The corners of his eyes begin to prickle again, and he quickly brings his hand around to cover his mouth.

“Hey, it’s gonna be ok.” May gives his arm a motherly squeeze. “Pain is hard to watch, but easy to manage once you give it some time.”

“Hm.” Steve slowly nods. “Good point.”

“Now, what can I get you? Maybe some soup?” the nurse suggests. “You should both eat something.”

“Oh, I’m fine.” Steve gestures to himself. “And--” He gestures to the the emesis bag in his hand.

“You shouldn’t worry on an empty stomach. And he needs something to properly throw up.” May grins. “I’m joking, of course.”

“Oh.” Steve finds himself fighting a laugh.

“Go ahead,” says May. “That was meant to be funny”

Peter returns with several syringes and an oxygen cannula. He sets up the O2 first, gently inserting the prongs of the cannula into James’s nose. James shifts to allow the tubing to be tightened beneath his chin, then he curls like a cat with his stump arm buried in Steve’s lap. Steve knows the oxygen is far from magic, but it seems James’s labored breathing immediately eases a bit.

“Now for meds,” May says. She tells Peter the order in which the drugs should be injected into the IV line. “Dilute them with a little saline so they don’t burn on the way in.”

“Do they burn?” Steve asks in concern.

“Nuh.” James shrugs. “At this point,” he pants. “Don’ really care.”

“Aw, Buck,” Steve says, gently petting James’s hair. 

“That’s it for now,” May says. “I’ll bring you guys some food in a few minutes.”

True to her word, she does return with two bowls of soup on a tray. “Now, I didn’t cook it, so take it up with Nutrition if it’s the wrong flavor or something. I think it’s supposed to be corn chowder.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, maneuvering the rolling table over to the bed. “So much.”

“Don’t mention it. Just looking out for you.” May takes her leave.

Steve carefully peels the top off one of the bowls. Steam rises from it, giving off a bland savory smell. “You first?” he asks James.

“Nope,” James protests. “This one’s all you.”

Steve shrugs and dips in a spoon. He brings it to his lips and sips slowly. “Huh,” he murmurs, then takes another spoonful.

“How is it?” James asks. “Or do I even want to know?”

“It kind of tastes like...water,” Steve decides. “Or, like...like nothing.”

“Gross.” James gives a shallow cough.

“What, you don’t want to try it?”

“Not unless you want it back all over the front of your shirt.”

“Fair enough,” Steve laughs.

A man in an apron and hairnet comes to get the bowls after a while. James settles into the mattress on his side, his head on the pillow and his fingers threaded through one of Steve’s belt loops. Steve lies carefully beside him, taking up as little space as possible as he watches fluid slowly drip into the IV line on the back of Jamse’s hand.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks softly.

“Honestly?” James flicks his eyes upward to get a good look at Steve’s face, then winces. “Kinda the same.”

“Hm.” Steve presses his lips together. He’d hoped for the best, though he knows treating migraines is part science and part magical mystery, like throwing knives at a spinning roulette wheel. He reaches over James’s back and finds the remote with the nurse’s call button. He presses it and waits a moment before May and Peter appear.

“Tell them what you just told me,” Steve says, giving James a prompting nod.

James sighs. “Still don’t feel good,” he mutters.

“Oh, sweetie,” May simpers. “I’ll talk with the hospitalist and see what else we can give you. Dr. Danvers is on today, and she should be in for rounds in not too long. Your neurologist will be along later as well.”

James nods, then winces again and swallows painfully.

“You didn’t eat, did you, babe?” May puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head. 

“Can I get you a basin or something?” Peter asks, seeming eager to be helpful.

James says “no” at the same time that Steve says “yes.”

“You don’t have to use it.” Peter gives a nervous smile. “In fact, we hope you don’t.”

“Go grab one,” says May. “I’ll grab Dr. Danvers.”

No sooner has Peter deposited the unwanted basin on the table than a tall woman with short caramel colored hair arrives. 

“Dr. Carol Danvers,” she introduces herself. “I hear first line of defense hasn’t worked out so well.” 

Steve shakes his head. “No, we’re still not feeling great.” He gives James a meaningful look.

“My head is fucking exploding,” he murmurs.

“I understand.” Dr. Danvers perches on the edge of the recliner in the corner of the room. “Unfortunately there isn’t a reliable cure-all for a severe headache like this. I have a couple more tricks to throw at it, and hopefully neuro will have a few more.”

“Ok,” Steve says. “What kind of odds are we talking here, doc? I just, you know, I just hate seeing him like this.”

“Honestly,” Dr. Danvers starts, “I couldn’t begin to tell you.” She presses her lips together. “The cocktail of painkillers and vitamins I want to try has a pretty good reputation of success against a status migraine, but it isn’t foolproof. Nothing really is.”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs. “So I’m learning. Thanks for being honest with us.”

“Sure thing. How do you feel about it, James?”

James swallows hard. “I’ll try anything,” he croaks.

Dr. Danvers offers a sad smile. “We’ll get you better. If not this round, then the next.” 

She stands and leaves the room.

Barely a moment later, May and Peter are back with fresh bags of IV fluids.

“Some more saline,” May explains. “Then painkillers”. She slowly injects the line.

James closes his eyes.

Peter holds up the next syringe. “Now for magnesium. Um, this one can burn a little.”

“Whatever,” James mutters.

“Ok.” Peter smiles and shrugs, then begins to inject the clear fluid. 

Within five seconds, James is gritting his teeth. His face goes a shade of fire engine red, and beads of sweat gather at his temples. 

“Buck?” Steve asks, snaking his arm around his shoulders. James’s skin burns through the hospital gown as if he’s spiked an instantaneous fever. “Is this normal?” Steve demands.

“Yes, unfortunately,” Peter answers. “It only lasts a few minutes.”

“Jesus,” Steve says under his breath. He isn’t sure whether to pull James close or to refrain from touching him at all.

“Mm,” James groans, swiping at the perspiration running down his cheek. 

“I got it, Buck,” Steve says. He stills James’s hand and uses his own shirttail to catch the drip.

“Next is a steroid,” says May, continuing to fuss with the IV. “Hopefully this will break the headache, but it can have a couple side effects. Can make you feel a little puffy, a little hungry. Nothing dangerous, but it can be pretty annoying once you get to feeling better.”

“Then we’ll deal with it then,” James says quietly. Steve imagines he can’t care less about side effects at the moment. He can’t either.

“That’s a good attitude you’ve got,” May comments. “Alrighty, that should knock you flat for a good couple hours. We’ll evaluate how you’re doing when you wake up, and hopefully neuro will be making rounds by then.”

“Ok.” Steve looks from James’s face to to May’s. “I guess that sounds good.”

“Call me if you need anything, Sweetie.” She grins at him, then she and Peter take their leave.

Steve lets out his breath again. James is still warm to the touch, but his expression is much more serene. His hair is damp with sweat and sticking to his face. Steve combs his fingers through it and murmurs sweet nothings until he feels sleepy himself. He curls around James as much as he can on the narrow bed, shuts his eyes, and drifts into a light sleep.

He wakes when James starts dry heaving again. Steve scrambles to grab the basin off the table and shove it under James’s chin, but it’s completely unnecessary. 

“It’s alright.” he slips his hand behind James’s back and gives it a light tap. “Just get it up, if you’ve got it.”

“Nah,” James says, spitting out a string of mucous and wiping his mouth on his shoulder. “‘M hungry, though.”

Steve laughs and presses the call button. He expects Peter and May to return again, but instead it’s a young black woman with long braids who comes toting the cup of pudding. She hands over the dish and spoon, then sits cross-legged on the end of the bed. 

“Hi, Dr…” Steve squints at her name tag. 

“Call me Shuri,” the woman says. “I don’t use my last name. No one can pronounce it. And I don’t use ‘doctor,’ either, but I’m your neurologist today.”

“Good to meet you,” Steve says.

James raises his spoon in salute.

“So,” Sure says, getting right down to business, “You’ve had two migraine cocktails. How are you feeling?”

“Still like hell,” James mumbles, his mouth full of pudding.

He looks like hell, too, Steve thinks, with circles under his eyes and a gaunt, greyish tinge to his skin. 

“The brain is a mysterious thing,” Shuri explains. “You have a TBI, so I know you understand some of this already. Injury happens, then recovery. But with the brain, it isn’t like healing a broken bone. And when the injury isn’t even an impact, it’s spontaneous electrical activity…” She shakes her head. “It’s like fighting invisible enemies.”

James sighs and hands Steve his empty bowl. “You make it sound like a sci-fi movie or something,” he jokes.

Steve is glad to see him in a good mood, but he doesn’t like the way lines of pain appear around James’s eyes. Shuri seems to notice too.

“Here, why don’t you lie down,” she suggests, getting to her feet. “I’d like to try you on a new combination of medications. Some will be added to your regular daily regimen of anticonvulsants, and those will be a permanent fixture. Some others will be administered intravenously over a 72 hour period while you're here at the hospital. They take nearly the whole period to begin working, but I’ve seen good success.” Shuri smiles. “Does that sound ok to you?”

“So…” James’s brow wrinkles as he does the math. “That’s three days in here?”

“Yes,” Shuri says. “Fortunately. Or unfortunately, however you choose to look at it. It can feel like a long time, but it’s fairly quick in the world of intractable migraines. We’ll be sure to send you home with plenty of preventables. Injectable Imitrex, that kind of thing. To keep you ahead of the curve.”

“Ok,” James says, his voice going flat. The look in his eyes is hopeful, yet exhausted. 

Steve nods and looks to Shuri again. “Alright,” she says. “I know this is complicated, but I like to keep my patients well-informed. You’ll continue to get your regular meds morning, midday, and night, with the addition of another anticonvulsant, plus oral painkillers as needed. Then you’ll get an antiemetic and an analgesic in your IV every six hours for the next three days. We’ll continue your oxygen therapy as well.” Shuri points to the cannula under James’s nose. “And we’ll keep the option for a mild opioid open should you need something that works a little stronger and faster. She looks between Steve and James. “Is that clear as mud?”

“Clear enough,” Steve says, pleased with the way she’s broken it all down for them.

“Yes,” agrees James, nodding slightly and wincing.

“Don’t strain yourself,” Shuri says. “I’ll put in the orders and see about setting up that first dose.” She nods to them and leaves the room.

Once they’re on their own again, James turns to Steve, cautiously rolling onto his side. “So. Three days in this place.”

“Yup,” says Steve. “Want me to run by home and get your toothbrush? Maybe some pajamas for you?”

“That would be great, actually,” says James, a little blearily. “But what do you mean, run by? Wouldn’t it be easier to come back and see me after work on Monday?”

“Buck.” Steve shakes his head emphatically. “If you think I’m leaving you here by yourself, you’re nuts. You know what, Sam has a spare key. He can pack up some essentials and bring them over.”

James blinks a few times. “Really?”

“Of course.” Steve kisses his cheek. “To the end of the line, remember? Always to the end of the line.”

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
